Free Captured by the Warrior by MERIEL FULLER Page A

gait, he realised she was exhausted. Why, she was half the size of some of his soldiers, yet had kept pace with them nigh on a full day! He supposed it was an adequate punishment for her recklessness in pursuing them in the first place.
    As he and Alfric beside him chivvied the prisoners through the shadowed recess of the gatehouse and into the brightness of the inner bailey, a short, stocky man barrelled forward to greet him.
    ‘Richard!’ Bastien grinned at the Duke of York, jumping down from the saddle and handing the reins to a waiting groom. ‘I wasn’t certain that you’d be here.’
    Richard clapped him on the back. ‘Naturally I would be here to congratulate you on your victory! I’m only sorry I couldn’t be there myself. Looks like you had an excellent morning on my behalf.’ He nodded approvingly at the prisoners jostling together on the cobbles. ‘What a fine bunch. And all ransomable for a pretty sum, I’ll be bound.’
    ‘I haven’t collected the names yet.’ Bastien was awareof a curious detachment. Normally he was excited as Richard about their success in battle; they had fought together often, ever since the day the Duke had spotted the innate talent in the keen battle-hungry lad, and trained him up to be one of the finest commanding soldiers in England.
    ‘Well, let’s collect them now,’ Richard said briskly, striding towards the group. ‘As soon as we have names, we can send ransom notes to their families, and extract some money from them.’
    Not that he needed it, mused Bastien. The Duke was one of the richest men in England—richer than the King himself, some said. But his grudge against the King grew wider and deeper every day and his loyal supporters were anxious about the mounting crisis towards which the county was heading under King Henry’s weak leadership.
    ‘Scribe!’ Richard clicked his fingers, and instantly, a pale-faced, harried-looking man scurried to his side, carrying a quill and a book of parchment. Beside him walked a small boy, carefully carrying an earthenware pot of ink as if it were precious gold.
    ‘Holy Mary,’ Richard barked, braking his stride sharply before Alice’s diminutive figure. She stood drooping at the end of the lined-up prisoners. ‘They’re sending them young these days, are they not?’ He threw the comment back at Bastien, then turned to address the boy. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘I’m one-and-twenty, my lord,’ the lad mumbled back.
    ‘Hm! Older than you look, then.’ The Duke appeared puzzled. ‘You seem mighty short for a lad that age. What’s your name?’
    No answer. The lad stared resolutely ahead, eyes seemingly fixed on a distant horizon. Bastien frowned, a small crease appearing between his fine green eyes. Why did she not give a false name, and be done with it?
    ‘I said…’ the Duke leaned into the boy’s face ‘…what…is…your…name?’
    For a moment, the lad stood there, resolute, before his whole body seemed to fold in on itself, looping around in a soft spiral, before crashing down on to the cobbles. It happened so suddenly that no one had time to act, to leap or grab, and now all eyes were riveted on the lad that lay on the ground. Nay, not a lad. A maid!
    Alice’s hat had dislodged itself in her fall, and now lay some feet away from her crumpled body. Her golden hair, intricately braided, shone brightly in the sunshine, the severe style exposing the gentle line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her cheek. The older man, the one she seemed so familiar with, had dropped to her side, his fingers on her neck, finding her rapid pulse, assuring for himself that all was well.
    He turned exhausted eyes up to the Duke. ‘This has gone on long enough,’ he muttered. ‘My lord, may I present my daughter, the Lady Alice Matravers.’
     
    ‘Good God, man, what were you thinking?’ The Duke, his weatherbeaten faced creased with astonishment, glared down at Bastien, sprawled languidly in an oak chair by the fire in